When A Language Dies

A poem a friend of mine Daniel Sikazwe wrote. He went to Chipata and met the last Ngoni speaker there. The last one old man who can speak the language.

The Last Speaker

He is the last library burning

The fire has been raging for centuries

The ambers are yet to touch the last pages

Of this old book loaded with date stamps from since when

the world was younger and more gregarious

but this is only on the inside cover and the first page

the rest of the pages are as preserved as the passports

of the missionary explorers who roamed Africa

with documents they did not need

The book is almost never borrowed today

From time to time, after many years, it receives the odd stamp

Dust refuses to sit there anymore; there is no space for more

There is that old bookish smell that delays the fire from running faster

The pages are falling apart; this information is stored somewhere easier to retrieve,

Easier to add and easier to remove

So they never come to this book which holds information that never changes

The pages are falling off fast

There are always rumors of binding and reprinting the book,

occasionally, when the ceremony is near

The cornerstone is cracking, this library is falling

Pictures of the dancers, the warriors, having breathed through the night, are folding

Now the air blows, the fire cannot stop, the pages are burning

A people’s language vanishes!

Daniel Sikazwe

Stockholm, 01-11-12